A View from Purgatory
by CloakedStoat
Summary: A slightly vignette-ish piece, from Severus Snape's point of view. A character piece in a stream-of-consciousness style. The Rating may be a bit high; I'm a poor judge on that count. Reviews eagerly sought.


A View from Purgatory Notes: When I started writing this, I hadn't intended to write more then a few paragraphs. I also hadn't intended to produce anything as stream-of-conciousness as it ended up. However, it's become a vignette I'm somewhat proud of (well... "content with enough to share" would be more accurate then "somewhat proud of"), and a bit of an attempt at speculative character study besides. The longer length and depth then I had first expected is probably due to the fact that while the original few paragraphs were still on disk, I encountered [Pawn To Queen][1] by the amazing [Riley][2]. I can't claim her league, but she inspired me to try to form some new opinions of my own about what goes on in the mind of the Potions Master. 

Disclaimer: There is a list of people who can lay claim to characters, items, and setting used in this story. I am not on that list. I mean no disrespect to those who do have rightful claim. All things recognizable as from the Harry Potter universe obviously belong to those who shape, control, and are allowed to profit from that universe. Dragon Sand is something I've borrowed from Stephen King's The Eyes of the Dragon. 

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. 

_A View from Purgatory_

From my place at the head of the classroom, I look down at them -- a practiced scowl around my eyes, a well-used sneer curling my lips, and I am strained to maintain the aura of the actively cruel that I wear as though it were a winter cloak. Potter and his little friends, Weasely and Granger huddle together around a table, each ducked partially behind their cauldron. No doubt, they are discussing how unfair my latest deduction of points from Gryffindor seemed to them. I wait a moment, feigning interest in the progress of the Slytherin students in this assignment. Then, from the corner of my eye, I catch the movement I expect. 

"Mr. Longbottom!" My voice is sharp, and surprisingly, it is unexpected by the class. The boy almost falls from his chair. "If you are so inept as to not be capable of producing a satisfactory Tonic of Giant's Strength, kindly do not cause a greater disturbance by seeking aid from Miss Granger. Ten points from Gryffindor!" He trembles up at me, too frightened to move voluntarily. Wait for it. Any second now… 

"But Professor! He was only ask--" 

"Miss Granger, as much as Mr. Longbottom would like it to be so, this is none of your affair." I frown at her, wondering how best to alter the situation such that I may have a moment or two of peace during the rest of the period. "Pick up your things, and move to the table in front of my desk." 

"I don't think-" 

"Funny that you would say that, considering Mr. Longbottom would rather you do his thinking for him. Your two partners in crime as well, I suppose. That's another five points from Gryffindor, and if you continue to argue, I shall increase it by five with each word." Her eyes burn at me, but she seems determined not to cry. A welcome attitude - I can still recall the way she sobbed at me during the incident with her teeth. But she picks up her supplies, and moves to the workstation not even the most devoted of my Slytherins will voluntarily take. 

I force a self-satisfied smile. No doubt they misinterpret it completely. True, it is a smile at their frowns and glares of indignation. But it has nothing to do with memories of my own friendless time at Hogwarts, desire to see the good youth of the wizarding world suffer, or any of their other probable assumptions about my motives. I am here to do a job, and I am doing it. 

Potter fumes at me. He thinks that he understands so much. Arrogant boy. He honestly believes that he feels the praise heaped upon him to be a burden. He confuses his stupidity with his bravery. There is no doubting that the boy is brave. Even were he not a Gryffindor, I could not dispute his courage. But his foolishness may well be a match to it, and so often he seems to mistake one for the other. Gryffindor's curse -- they are nearly all like that, and have been since long before my own schooldays. Even before Dumbledore's, I'd imagine. 

I am doing my job, be it the one no one would want. Always I have done the jobs no one would want. You'd think I had foolish Hufflepuff devotion to duty. It is only that I see what others are afraid to. Always. You could no more explain my necessity to these students, however, then you could make them understand the high art that is potions brewing. In the long and the short of things, it's better that way. If they honestly believed now that I do them a service, my efforts would be lost on them. The jobs no one would want, that no one ever knows you have done. I couldn't escape this fate, even if I tried. I have tried. Albus won't allow me to succeed in that particular endeavor. 

In some small way, I suppose it amuses me that the students are all convinced I seek the posting to DADA as fervently as I do out of some desire to leave as many as possible ill-fit for defending themselves. Or that my love for the Dark Arts would cause me to prefer that position over that of Potions Master. And on some days - on most days - I wish that such was the case. 

Leaving my potions dungeon would be a terribly depressing thing; as one of the few who truly understand brewing, I am also one of those who love the art and science of it. The logic, the subtlety… the careful and exacting beauty of it. But the position of Potions Master has always been the same as Slytherin Head of House, just as Transfiguration carries that duty for Gryffindor, Charms for Ravenclaw, and Herbology for Hufflepuff. It has as much to do - if not more - with the qualities it takes to be adept at these magics, as it does with the personalities of those who would deign to teach them to the slobbering masses. Love of potions-making notwithstanding, if I were the DADA instructor, I would no longer head my old house, and I could find myself excused, at least in part, from the dubious duties that posting now brings with it. 

The pity of it all is that I could no more leave behind the responsibilities of one aspect of the job then another. Potions have always been the only constant in my life. New things exist to be discovered, but what you know to be true cannot change suddenly, and never without warning. And as much as I loathe having to impart the love of the craft whilst hobbled by my other responsibilities, I know that I am perhaps as skilled at those other responsibilities as I am at brewing. The talents required are little different then those needed to turn spy. 

Though forcing compact strength upon young saplings of one breed - while attempting to train others gently away from the direction their kind follows when unchecked - carries a far greater risk. Should I fail in this deception, innocent lives may be irrevocably altered for the worse. To fail as a turncoat will only result in my own death - and there will always be another somewhere, willing to sell his life bringing Voldemort's secrets to the forces of the Light. It is a small price to pay when one has already sold one's soul and lived to regret it. 

Ironic again, really, that my penitence for years of evil deeds is not to die nobly, but to live on in the guise of a still-sinister man. It becomes a hard road to travel. How best to appear to be those things I rejected utterly, while fighting to keep away from the slippery slope back to where my sickly thoughts used to spawn and circle around each other. Hard to seem to be what I was, while hating what I fear I still am, and not able to become what I should have been. Hardest, perhaps, to sit idly by while mere babes are charged with leading a fight that would not be where it is today if not for others of my ilk. 

We were those who held a twisted hope that by turning ourselves in, by describing our depravity in graphic and vivid detail, we would appear so deplorable as to be executed. Failing that, we agreed to become spies, led by faith that the Dark Lord would smell our deception, and cast us down into the fires. The pain exquisite of death as it would be from he to a traitor would in some way have seemed cleansing. 

I say we. I _must_ say we. Surely there were others who realized what we were, what we were yet metamorphosing into. There must have been others who fled from the night, too cowardly to make a direct stand. There must have been others who realized that what they had once flocked to was a thousand times compounded more frightening then what they had once thought they worked against. Others who knew that no matter the seeming terror, anywhere was a better place to run to then there. 

Not for the first time, I wonder why I have not yet met my end. Absently, I slip my hand into one of the requisite robe-pockets. Almost without a thought, I caress the magically sealed vial. 

In their rudest, simplest forms, poisons are beneath a true potions maestro. All of these foolish fifth year students could produce with accidental ease any number of lethal infusions. Some would kill on contact. Some on inhalation. Most by insinuation or ingestion. They would perhaps be grotesque deaths in most cases. Dehydration. Exsanguination. Only when poison approaches the highest levels of macabre art does it begin to be worthy of notice to those with passion and interest. 

As art, it could take several differing paths. As a matter of course, the immediately noteworthy poisons are those with most subtlety. Nectar of Tartarus comes to mind. With a taste of slightly licorice-flavored honey, it remains potent when mixed with most food or drink. The unfortunate dies of sudden extreme shock, generally on the third or fourth day after ingestion. Nocturne Elixir Requius, which kills as hemlock does, but is only potent in vaporous form - one can resist the effect, if one has taken the appropriate formula prior to exposure. The ante-antidote is the same potion in its liquid form. Subtle, and ironic. 

Of course, a poison need not be subtle to have a certain flair. The Jade Wyrm Solution, for example... the sly creation of a dark-minded genius, it mimics the supposed properties of Dragon Sand - a substance believed to exist only in legend. Unstable, yet almost impossible to detect once introduced to the instrument of insinuation or ingestion. It causes the victim to internally combust -- slowly and gradually. There is no antidote. It is a pity, really, that one can so often tell an illegal or illicit potion by its name - often it is only the "dark" potions that receive the artful and creative names. Also to their discredit and advertisement -- the "darkest" potions have no counter. The darkest poisons have no antidote. 

The most interesting potions, so often, are those hardest to brew - those requiring the most skill and care, and the deepest understanding of why you do that which you do. Poisons are no exception. It can take months to brew Morpheus' Death, which causes a deep magical sleep that quietly descends into true death. 

With nearly a year of almost constant work, a dedicated and talented brewer can create a few vials of what is often supposed as the ultimate in poisons. The true name of the potion has been long lost to antiquity, but most who deal in such substances call it Thanatos's Mercy. It kills almost instantly, and with a complete lack of pain. During the Dark Lord's first rise to power, Thanatos's Mercy gained a great popularity among the inner circle. Many would gladly die before suffering what would be just torture, or saw death as a final possibility far better than Azkaban. Those few who were truly brainwashed viewed the potion as a means to combat the torture-bound pressure to reveal names and movements of counterparts. Cravens lower in the ranks sometimes purchased the potion at great price - they tended to fear the torture afforded failures to their Lord more then they feared even Aurors. 

After my defection, Thanatos's Mercy was among the subjects I discussed with Albus at length. He concluded with his sad sort of resignation that the double operatives spying on the Dark's forces should each carry a vial of the poison. It would be a great blow to have the spy network exposed more grievously then it would already be should a single operative be exposed. It would not surprise me if the Headmaster is aware I keep a vial on my person at all times, even when I am away from the duties of a turncoat. I take great care, however, that he never learn what is actually in the vial that never leaves my side. 

At several key junctures in the brewing of Thanatos's Mercy, one may easily commit a minor miscalculation or two. Slip of the hand, really. Only a few grains more of one component, and two drops less of a vital infusion will result in something that is most certainly not Thanatos's Mercy. The newer texts detailing the creation of the poison mention very carefully which of these delicate stages to take most care in. In the language a dedicated potions master will only use when dealing with other true competents, the texts make a morbid jape of it. They warn an imprecise hand will bring down Thanatos's Wrath upon the brewer. 

Wrath indeed. Cautionary tales imply that Thanatos's Wrath was once a potion in its own right, and it was in fact a miscalculation in brewing _that_ potion which was the discovery of Thanatos's Mercy. The old potion originated during an attempt by some sadistic bastard or another to draft a potion that recreated a spell effect. 

Most are aware that you can go mad under the Cruciatus Curse if it is applied for too long. Few realize that it can eventually result in death. It must have been a sadistic wizard indeed to wish to recreate that in a potion. From what I understand, in the end, it was more painful then the Cruciatus itself, but I suppose that was purely conjecture. 

After these now growing years, I know that Albus will never require from me the sort of penance my crimes demand. He refers me to the slow road he thinks will lead to my salvation. I know that no such absolution is forthcoming. I follow Dumbledore's road because it will keep me from falling farther, and because I can repay my concrete debt. The abstract debt will have to wait. Unless I am one day on the receiving end of the Killing Curse, I will feel it begin in those torn moments before I meet my death. The vial is never far from me now. 

I slip my hand back out of the unnumbered robe pocket. It is time to return my full attention to the class. Any accidents with this assignment will most likely occur in the next ten minutes, give or take. And they will all be in need of grading. 

As usual, I glance around the room before standing, and drawing attention to my scrutiny of the students. Longbottom's cauldron looks ready to froth over at a second's provocation. I'd imagine he has managed to produce a sludge with effects similar to an over-simmered Contact Philter of Haste. It is tempting to pity the other instructors their afternoon of a triple-speed Longbottom. 

Potter and Weasely will only barely finish, as usual. I make a mental note to choose partners myself for the next class, there will only be just enough time for them to finish the Tonic of Enfeeblement without pointless chatter to distract them. 

The others mostly seem to be having varying degrees of success with their tasks. Most are nearing completion, looking nervously at neighboring cauldrons, wondering if they're close enough to matching the usual inspection qualities. They'll learn to be even more cautious after their winter break. I plan to start them on compound and additive potions then. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement directly in front of my desk. I've almost given into a moment of surprise when I remember moving Granger there at the beginning of today's lab portion. She scans a page of notes, no doubt reviewing again the steps she should have been following today. Her potion is finished, and as I expect it is almost the exact shade of cloudy blue it should be. She glances up at me, over her notes. It would be a look half of anger, half of nervousness, save for that the whole expression is glossed over in curiosity. My irritation returns in time to keep me from heaving a sigh as I stand to review the class. 

My right hand finds another voluminous pocket. Within it is another vial. I attempt to focus my mind on the pure, cold, razor's edge I associate with Veritaserum. When I have informed each group or individual fully how far they are from true success with the potion, I will be able to send them away from my private purgatory. The thought brings a bitter smile. 

When I am left to the peaceless quiet, I will remember the Tartarus I once deluded myself into believing to be an Elysium. From there I will remind myself to be grateful. It may be that I pay dearly for each moment of borrowed time in which I continue to draw breath. But with the same certainty of nature which causes the mark seared onto my arm - my soul - to burn like a force of withdrawl every moment I am not in my former master's presence, I know that this is a purgatory I built for myself. I will have to toil all the harder for the right to dismantle it, and fall at last into the cleansing fires of hell, which I also created. 

~*~ 

Thank you for reading.   
If you've got the moment to spare, please leave me a review so I'll have some idea of how well or poorly I did with this. 

   [1]: http://www.fanfiction.net/index.fic?action=story-read&storyid=414370
   [2]: http://www.fanfiction.net/index.fic?action=Directory-AuthorProfile&UserID=114057



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